


Fire (Change What I Can, And Pray The Hope Will Not Disappear)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [18]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Brief Self-Harm, Careful First Kisses Again, Commitment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epiphanies, Healing, Honest Conversations, Hope, Hopeful Ending, James Doesn't Really Want To Do That, Love, M/M, Not Quite Attempted Things With Razors, Panicked!Michael, Phone Calls & Telephones, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Relief, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael both should and shouldn’t’ve gone anywhere. James shouldn’t’ve found sharp objects while cleaning. But James doesn’t want to do that, not really, so we get the second of those two phone calls…and maybe even some kisses, by the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire (Change What I Can, And Pray The Hope Will Not Disappear)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for aftermath & healing after very traumatic non-con (the actual event happened several stories ago) and very brief self-harm (James is having a difficult time, but that’s not really what he wants to do); plus panicked Michael, cuddling, kissing, talking. 
> 
> This one is actually the direct sequel to "Doubt"--later that day--though it probably makes sense on its own, too. 
> 
> Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “Little Heaven”: _when we are not denying anything/ nothing is an enemy/ delicately balancing/ the perfect world…_

(two months, three weeks, four days, one sunlit morning, and one cloud-interrupted afternoon)

Michael really had left. Had gone to the meeting.

James had walked him to the door, and smiled, and Michael’d touched his hand again. Had lifted it, gingerly, and, when James hadn’t pulled away, had kissed cold fingertips, lightly, almost without making contact. A breath of warm air over his skin.

He’d held very still and let the sensation spread out over his fingers, and Michael’d smiled back at him, for that. For trying.

And then Michael had left. Out into the world. Back into life beyond their everyday walls.

James, on the other hand, was alone. In a house that abruptly felt far too big, too full of intimidating space, around him.

Michael would come back, of course. In an hour, two hours, three, maybe, if the conversations were going well. Michael loved to talk about characters, about the process, about storytelling; more than once he’d mentioned wanting to write, or produce, something, someday. James had always listened, amazed and impressed, and promised to take on whatever role Michael came up with for him, whenever that day arrived.

Except that day, like so many other days, might never arrive. Not now.

Now, right now, he was still very alone.

Right, he thought, and looked down at the pearl-grey fuzziness of the rug, where it sat serenely over the honey-oak floorboards and returned his gaze. Just me. Me and the household furnishings. Which really aren’t interested in whatever I do.

Michael’d said yes, when James had called himself a victim. Broken. Dependent on the man who loved him.

Of course that’d been followed by the protest— _I didn’t mean that, I love you, you know I love you_ —and James did, of course, know that. Michael loved him. Always would.

 _Always_ meant a long time. _Always_ meant that Michael would keep standing by his side, holding him up, sacrificing opportunities without hesitation, for James’s sake, forever. Throughout their lives. As long as they both should live.

What if, he thought, and then, before the idea could take even the outline of a shape, no. No.

Instead, he made himself walk away from the fluffy rug and across the bare floorboards and into the kitchen, where he rinsed that morning’s dishes and put them in the dishwasher, carefully, precisely. Added detergent. Turned it on. Resolutely avoided glancing at the clock.

He’d never been a particularly tidy person, before. He’d found himself cleaning, randomly, though, the past few weeks. Straightening the books and untidy piles of unread scripts on their bookshelves. Washing the dishes. Putting movies and games back on their shelf, once they’d been finished.

He knew why, too. He’d read all of Michael’s not-very-well-hidden informational pamphlets. He’d found them in a drawer, in the kitchen, while cleaning _that_. Michael’d been in the shower, and James had lifted up the top one, curious, and seen the title— _Living With Post-Traumatic Stress_ —and dropped it as if it’d scalded his fingers. And then had picked it up again, cautiously, after a second.

Most of them hadn’t told him anything he didn’t know. Once or twice they’d made him laugh, mostly about how very wrong they were. One of them had mentioned neatness as a symptom, the victim attempting to exert control over some aspect of his or her environment. Fair enough, he’d thought, and had gone off to hang up the shirts that Michael’d collected from the dryer earlier and left abandoned on the bed.

Michael’d never mentioned the sudden obsessive cleanliness. For that matter, Michael had never mentioned the informational literature, either; for all James knew, he’d never read them. Had tossed them in the drawer and forgotten. Or maybe he had noticed the sporadic tidying up, and had known that James would get to the kitchen, at some point. Had wanted James to find them.

Right now, standing alone in the middle of that same kitchen, a patch of sunlight slowly being strangled by clouds out in the living room, James bit his lip, hard enough to hurt. Thought again, no, and went off to clean the bathroom.

He’d finished scrubbing the shower, and cleaned the counters, and was starting to feel vaguely proud of himself—the metal of the faucets gleamed back at him appreciatively—so he studied the room and thought, okay, next? The unopened medicine cabinet suggested itself as an option. They never _had_ opened it, ever, as far as he could recall; all right, he decided, time to explore.

Mostly, it was empty, which didn’t make for terribly exciting new discoveries. There was a disturbingly unlabeled bottle containing three ancient small white pills, which he hoped were aspirin and then threw away; there was a lot of dust, and an unopened toothbrush, and a comb, and another unopened package, this one containing three slim metallic razor blades.

He’d been holding everything else, the toothbrush and the comb and his bunch of damp paper towels, in one hand; he set them all down, on the just-cleaned countertop, unnoticing. Picked up the package.

It was dusty, too. On the outside. But unused, on the inside. The metal lines glinted up at him, feral spikes of cold light.

He opened them up without really thinking about the motion. It was curiosity. Honestly. Someone must’ve left them there. Some previous time. Some other person, standing where he was standing now. It didn’t mean anything. Just coincidence, that when he opened the plastic the top blade spilled eagerly out into his fingers.

Knives could hurt. He knew that. Knives, wielded against his skin by someone else, could hurt. They’d left him flayed open inside and out and not good for anything except pulling Michael down with him, being a burden, causing agony for the person he loved.

He tapped the flat of the blade against the thin skin of his wrist. The edge felt, rather impressively considering its likely age, sharp enough to be noticeable. Even like that, barely touching his skin, and more so when it sidled up to a vein.

What if he could just not hurt, anymore?

Michael would be so horrified. Heartbroken.

But hearts did heal. And Michael might be better off, without James needing him so very badly. _Would_ be better off.

It wasn’t a conscious decision. Just a little turn of his hand. Inadvertent, really.

The pain didn’t come, for a second, and then it did.

“Ow—oh, ow, fuck—oh, god, I’m an idiot—” He dropped the blade, hand shaking. It bounced under the sink, leaving little drops of his blood, merrily, along the way.

“Oh, I’m so fucking _stupid_ —well, _that_ hurts—” It wasn’t even that bad. Not incredibly deep, or terribly long.

“Not so deep as a well,” he said, to the wide-eyed reflection in the mirror, “nor so wide as a church door,” and then, “oh, fuck me, I’m quoting _Romeo and Juliet_ and slitting my wrists in a bathroom, my god, there _is_ something wrong with me,” and then had to bite his lip to keep from laughing hysterically.

Of course there was something wrong with him. There was everything wrong with him.

Except that wasn’t true. Not everything was wrong. Michael wasn’t wrong. Michael would never be wrong, for him. Michael loved him.

He _knew_ Michael loved him. That faded-Irish voice said, softly, in his memory, _I love you, too_. And, _I don’t want to leave you alone._

If he left now he’d be leaving Michael alone.

He looked back at his wrist. It was bleeding. It hurt. But it wasn’t bleeding that badly. Not irreparable.

So he wasn’t all right. Okay. He could live with that. Because he also wasn’t going to die. Not right now, not from this, and not at any point in the immediate future, either. The pain nibbled its way along his arm, and told him, cheerfully, that he was still alive, and very stupid, and still _going_ to be alive.

And he was going to touch Michael, when Michael got home, and ask to be held, because that was the only thing he did want, really, the feeling of those arms around him, and that warm voice telling him, one more time, that Michael did love him, through everything, so that he could let himself finally, honestly, completely believe the words.

Possibly that cut’d been a little deeper than he’d originally thought. It wasn’t quite closing, and the droplets of blood had begun gleefully decorating the floor, around him.

He grabbed the closest towel. Wrapped it around his arm. And then, not because he was scared, no, not that, not at all, just because he wanted to hear Michael’s voice right then, at that second, pulled his brand-new mobile phone out of his pocket. Made the call.

Michael didn’t answer immediately, but it didn’t take long, either. “James? Are you—is everything all right?”

And, without any warning, he found himself in tears. Because that’d been the first question. Because Michael had sounded so genuinely concerned.

“James?” His name came out frightened, this time. “What happened? What’s—hang on, I’m sorry, it’s an emergency, I have to go—” That last bit in response to questioning voices, an inquiry that James couldn’t quite hear, over the crackling connection. “—I didn’t mean that for you, James, I’m here, I love you, are you all right?”

“I,” James managed to say, and then shook his head, even though he knew Michael wouldn’t be able to see him. “Maybe. I don’t know. I—think I might’ve done something stupid…”

“James,” Michael breathed, on the other end, terrified, clearly afraid to ask the question, and James didn’t want Michael to be afraid. Not because of  him.

“I didn’t—don’t worry, I don’t think it’s that bad, I—it just hurts a lot now, that’s all, but I’m pretty sure it’s not—”

_“What hurts?!”_

“I…um…” The tears hadn’t gone away, after all. They returned promptly, unbidden. Through them, he found a few words, and those few words were enough to spark an eruption of creative language from the phone.

“James—oh, god, I’m so sorry—I shouldn’t’ve left you, shouldn’t’ve gone—I’ll be home as soon as—I’m coming home right now, okay? Just—just don’t do anything else, please, please wait for me—”

“Of course.” He tried for confidence. Didn’t quite make it; his voice wanted to be uneven. But he did mean it. So he said as much. Heard Michael swear again.

“Half an hour. At most. I’m on the way. Now.”

“I didn’t mean to—did I interrupt your meeting? I mean, I know I did, is that—”

“Fuck the meeting!” Michael sounded angry, now. “You honestly think I would care—that I wouldn’t answer, in a fucking heartbeat, if you called? I want you to call me, James, always—call me _before_ you do anything like this, if you’re ever even _thinking_ anything like this, and you shouldn’t be fucking thinking anything like this—”

“I’m not. I don’t know why—no, I do know why. But I’m not. Not now.”

“James,” Michael said, and that voice was shaking, too, “I love you, I do, you know that, right? Please don’t—we’re going to talk about this, all right? As soon as I get home.”

He heard, under those words, the other words that Michael didn’t say: please still be there, to talk about this, when I get home. Understandable, he thought; and answered both. “All right. I love you, too.”

“James—I have to—I’m on the bike, you know that, I have to get off the phone but I’m on the way. Right now, okay?”

“Yes.” He did remember that Michael’d left on the motorcycle, earlier. Michael’s preferred mode of transportation, he thought, always, and then caught himself smiling. Always. Still. So ordinary. The world could still be ordinary. Not everything had changed. “Okay. I’ll see you in a few minutes. I promise.”

“You _promise_ ,” Michael said, and James could hear the pause before the breath that followed, the fear inside the stillness, Michael trying to let himself be reassured and not anywhere close to succeeding. “All right. Are you—how bad is it? If you need to call someone—”

“It’s not.” When he checked, cautiously, peeling up his makeshift towel-wrapping, the blood had mostly stopped dripping. The red line, clotted and ugly, scowled back up at him, but behaved itself, and kept the remaining leakage to a thin trickle. “And I think we have…um, bandages. And things. I’ll go and…do that. Now. I love you. Really.”

“I love you, too.” Michael, evidently, didn’t want to be the first one to hang up; James set the phone down on the side of the sink, a little amused by that but feeling guilty, as well, now.

“You can, um. We can get off the phone. I know you can’t exactly do both. And I would—I’d like you to come home.” He hoped, saying that, speaking those words out loud, that Michael would know what he meant. Would hear it as the apology, the request for help, that it was.

“Okay…” Michael still didn’t end the call; James had to smile. “I’m hanging up now, all right? Not because I’m going to do anything else stupid. Just so you don’t have to worry about it. And I love you. And I’ll see you soon.”

The phone, afterwards, watched him compassionately from the countertop; James stared back at it, sighed, said, “No, he’s on the way, all right? I’m not going to be alone,” and then, onehanded, started opening cupboards and looking around for their first-aid kit. At least he’d chosen the more convenient arm to injure; he’d be even more pathetic trying to do this all left-handed, he thought, and picked up sympathetically wordless bandages, and looked at his wrist, and sighed again.  And started, clumsily, putting himself back together.

Surprisingly, his attempts didn’t take too long. Not that he thought he’d done a good job; good enough, though, he thought, and eyed the makeshift patchwork of it, holding his skin together. It’d last until Michael got home, and could help redo it, and make it better.

Michael wasn’t home quite yet, though. So he wandered out of the bathroom, and into the beckoning space in front of the couch, and sat down because he wasn’t sure what else to do with himself and he was tired.

Too many emotions, he decided. All piled up atop each other, too quickly. Or maybe just the snapping of all the tension, all the nightmares and stretched-out nerves that’d been keeping him so restless for so very long now conceding defeat, at last. Because he was idiotically, senselessly, happy to still be alive, and he wanted to live.

In the wake of that thought, he fell asleep so fast that he forgot to be afraid to dream.

 

Michael came flying through the door, breathless with horror.

He’d gotten used to the omnipresence of that emotion, too recognizable over the days and weeks of the unending catastrophe. But this was different. This was sharper, and more cruel, and when he ran into the house and _didn’t_ see James, he felt his heart stop, inside his chest.

“James,” he forced out, into the cataclysmic tranquility.

Nothing.

And then messy hair and endless blue eyes popped up, over the back of the couch, and the world lurched back into motion, ungainly and graceless but turning once more.

James blinked at him, startled. “Did I…I fell asleep…”

“I tried to hurry…” It hadn’t been that long; twenty minutes, he thought, if that. And James had fallen asleep? Or passed out, from blood loss? That one was more chilling, and frighteningly possible.

He crossed the room, on legs that didn’t feel like his. Sat down beside James, who leaned against him.

And that was new. James had been so careful not to reach out, not to initiate contact, at all, for so long; he accepted Michael’s touch, Michael’s arms around him when they were offered, when he woke up trying to scream in the night, but he’d never, not since that first time, made an unprompted request to be held.

Was he asking now? Or only in too much pain, too hurt, to hold himself upright? “James?”

“Michael,” James said back, which didn’t help in any way, and then, quietly, “you feel good,” which did, though now Michael found himself very confused.

He reached, cautiously, for the arm next to him, the one wrapped awkwardly in bandages. Refused to let his hands tremble. “Can I see?”

“Yes. It’s not that bad; I told you. I just couldn’t really take care of it, with one hand. But it’s stopped, I think.”

James did wince, though, as he peeled stained fabric back, and he was expecting the worst, and then found himself surprised.

“You thought I was pretending, to make it not sound as awful, didn’t you? But I wasn’t. Well, not much. You—”

“I love you. You scared the hell out of me. Again. Can I fix this, for you? I mean the…” He ran fingers around the edges of the bandages; looked up, inquiringly. He would fix everything else if he could, of course. He just didn’t know how. Or if that would ever be possible.

He’d left, and James had tried to kill himself, in their bathroom. His heart crumpled under the weight of it.

James met his gaze. Something different there, too. Something astonished, and worn-out as bare and polished bone, and, oddly, bright. An openness he hadn’t seen in…a long, long time.

“James,” he said again, testing, and James actually laughed, the sound brief and wondering, and then too-thin fingers curled around his hand.

“Still here. Really still here. I mean…I _did_ fall asleep. And I knew you were coming home, and I don’t even remember what I was dreaming about…”

“You…”

“I wasn’t having nightmares. And, um. I love you. I haven’t been telling you that, enough, have I? I’m sorry. I know how hard this is for you, too. Everything you’ve been doing for me. It is helping. You’re helping. So, thank you.”

“You—I—you don’t have to say— I love you, too.” He couldn’t come up with any other reply. Of all the devastating mental pictures he’d had, every apocalyptic possibility he’d envisioned in those endless minutes since the whisper of James’s tear-cracked voice over his phone, he’d never once imagined hearing those words, or anything like them.

James looked at him. Smiled, faintly, amusement flickering around the edges of that mobile mouth. “And I thought I was the one who still had trouble speaking, sometimes…you said we should talk about this. And I want to. And—I haven’t been saying this, either, and I’m sorry again—I’m glad you’re here. Now, but not just now. Every day.”

“James…” Michael looked down, at the vicious streak of dull red, dividing cinnamon-burst freckles in two along the arm that still rested in his hands. “I don’t know what to say. I thought—when you called, when you told me, I thought you were—can I take you into the bathroom, and fix this for you? Please?”

A concrete task, he thought. Something physical, finite, that he could see through to the end and make better, and understand. Unlike the shifting sands of the world around him, James saying words that he wanted so very badly to believe.

James hesitated, watching his face, but then nodded, and they stood up, together, still holding hands. Neither of them wanted to let go.

In the bathroom, under the cool gleam of florescent lights, they didn’t speak, at first. James seemed to be waiting, while Michael undid his first efforts at containment and cleaned the straight edges of the wound, because when he asked James shook his head and said “It hurt when I tried.” Michael didn’t curse out loud, at that. Only tried to be as gentle as he could.

He whispered, “Sorry,” every time he felt a wince, and James shook his head again, but didn’t offer any other words.

Maybe James didn’t feel like talking, any more; Michael, for his part, wasn’t certain he could. He’d forgotten how to begin any sentences at all, under the unforgiving clarity of the lights. They shone across pale skin and gemstone-blue eyes and, when James flexed his wrist, testing the new bandage, a luminous curve of wounded smile.

“Thank you. Much better than mine.”

What could he say, to that? Happy I could help? Not a problem? What else can I do, what more can I say, that might keep you from needing this kind of help ever again?

What can I offer, when you’ve been so badly hurt, to make you want to stay?

James tipped his head to one side; rumpled hair fell into his eyes, achingly familiar. “I think…um, stand very still, for a second, would you? Just…don’t move?”

He couldn’t even nod. Had no idea what James might be thinking, or asking of him.

James took a deep breath, as if with enough air he might have all the support he needed. Left his hand in Michael’s. Leaned in, more closely, up on tiptoes, bringing them almost to eye level. And then brushed his lips against Michael’s, tentatively.

And Michael stood there completely frozen with delirious shock, afraid that at any second he might have to shout with delight, with amazement, with the joy that he could feel bubbling up inside his veins; afraid, on the other hand, to move or shout or make any kind of noise at all, because James had asked him to stay still and if he moved James might be frightened away.

James paused. Looked at him, and nodded, slightly, as if coming to some agreement with unspoken thoughts. Then kissed him again. A little more firmly, this time. As if James himself were more certain about it.

“You taste like coffee. But your lips are cold. Which is kind of confusing, you know. The coffee I understand, but is it that cold in here?”

“No,” Michael got out, “I’m still scared as hell,” and James laughed.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to do that, not exactly, I just thought—you’re here. And I love you. And I wanted to know if I could. Was that all right?”

“More than all right—you—anything you want, you know that. I love you, too. Was that—okay, for you?”

“Yes. Actually…more okay than I thought it’d be. I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought. But it still felt like kissing you. Like…you. And me. Does that make sense?”

“Maybe. I am confused, though. This…” He touched that too-thin arm again. Set fingers next to repaired bandages. “If you were thinking about this…are you still thinking about this? Now?”

James sighed. Glanced down, but not, Michael thought, trying to hide anything; when the seawater eyes came back up, they met his, slightly battered, but without concealment. “I wasn’t, really, even then. I was…um, can we go sit down? And can you hold me, while I tell you? I’m not sure I can explain, but I think I’d like you to touch me.”

“Of course. Of course we can. And I can. And you—I love you.” He needed to say it again. There weren’t any other words.

James smiled. Let Michael hold his hands, both of them, on the way out of the bathroom. Michael started to turn towards their couch; James looked at him thoughtfully, then tugged him in the direction of the bedroom. Michael stopped walking entirely, conflicted.

“James—are you sure you want—”

“Oh. Not for that. I just want you to hold me. And I feel safe in the mornings, when I wake up next to you in bed. Is that all right?”

“More than all right.” Especially when James had been the one to ask. To make the gesture, verbally, physically. Not just all right, he thought again. Extraordinary.

They made it to the bed without incident; and, more importantly, without letting go. Michael leaned against a welcoming heap of pillows, accepting their support; James, in turn, leaned against him.

“Careful of your—”

“I know. It’s fine. Don’t worry.” James tucked himself more securely into Michael’s arms, fitting their bodies together. Apparently unbothered by the desperate tightness of said arms. “About that…”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, you said you wanted to talk about it. And I do, too. I didn’t—I found them when I was cleaning. I mean the razors.”

Razors. Plural. Christ. “Okay…”

“I mean I didn’t go out and buy them, or anything. I wasn’t—I didn’t plan this. And I don’t want  to die.”

“Good!”

“I was just…” James glanced down. Set the fingers of his other hand next to new bandages. Lightly. As if the gesture hurt. Michael swallowed. Didn’t cry. James kept talking, into the fading afternoon sunlight.

“I heard you. Earlier. On the phone. And it’s not because of what you said—it isn’t, it’s _not_ your fault, please don’t look like that—but you were right. This—me—I know this is hard for you. For your career. Everything you wanted—and now you can’t even have the person you wanted, because I’m not—Anyway. I thought—”

“James, no, you _can’t_ believe—”

“It’s not not true.” James looked up at him, with those infinitely blue eyes. “I just thought—only right then, I swear to you it wasn’t—premeditated or anything—I thought, if I could take that away. Your pain. Mine. All of it. If I could just—disappear…”

Michael tried to speak. Couldn’t. No syllables, no sounds, nothing left. Dissolved in the face of that unfinished sentence, the ellipsis holding all the anguish in the world.

He clung to James, mutely, sick at heart. As if his presence could be enough. As if anything could be.

But he couldn’t let go. Not now. Not ever. Never. And James was still speaking, softly. He held onto the words. A lifeline, in the implacable golden glow of the departing afternoon.

“…I knew it was stupid the second I did it. It hurt. A lot. And I don’t want to die. If I do that, if I give up, he wins. And I don’t want that, either, and I do want this. You. Next to me, being warm. I love you. So I’m not going anywhere.”

“James,” Michael managed, after a frantic pause, the letters stumbling over themselves on the way out, clumsy and inadequate, “I love you, too. And you—if you ever—I’d be heartbroken, James, you don’t know, how can you not know—I’d die, too, I’d just—stop. Everything. I can’t—please don’t. Just—please.”

“Michael…you…I…you know I don’t want you to die.”

“Then you don’t—do that—either.”

James sighed. Met his gaze. Those ocean-current eyes were oddly calm, saturated with color, with pain, with something that might be hope, infusing all the deepest waters with optimism. “Can I tell you something? About that night? It’s fine if you say no; it’s kind of horrible.”

“You can tell me anything. Anything you want to say, if you think it’ll help. You know—you should know that.” He hadn’t ever asked for details. He’d been afraid to ask. If James remembered what’d happened in those hours, that room, but didn’t want to bring it up, then Michael couldn’t make him relive it. And if James didn’t remember, through some magical intervention of drugs or unconsciousness or repression, then Michael wouldn’t ask him to try.

“Really kind of horrible, I mean. I don’t know…what you saw, when you found me. You said you were there. And I can’t even imagine—I think it might’ve been worse for you.”

“No. It wasn’t.” However bad it’d been—and still was—it hadn’t been worse for him.

“Well….if you say so…I do remember most of that night. Not by the time you came for me—I think I’d not been there for a while, before that—but the first parts. And…” James blinked once, slowly, but kept gazing at him, after. The blueness of those eyes stayed, not undisturbed by, but perhaps accepting of, the memories beneath the surface. “I never told you because I didn’t want to. To have to say—those things—out loud, to make you have to live with them too…”

“James…”

“But I think it’ll help. At least this part. And I’d like to try telling you. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“If I—I love you. Please tell me.”

James smiled at him; the ocean waves, in those eyes, danced, hesitantly. “Love you, too. All right. So…when I was…before you found me, when he was…doing those things, he was talking to me. He told me something. That he wanted to find out what death felt like. Mine. Like an orgasm, he said. Release. That we—he and I— were going to find out together. I thought I _was_ dead, already. The rest of me just hadn’t figured it out yet.”

“Oh god.” He was beyond shock, now. Beyond everything but the numbness of unending horror, piled upon horror. And James was still here? Still sane? He couldn’t imagine having that kind of strength. Couldn’t begin to understand how, or why, James had stayed put now, in his arms, and tried to explain.

He heard the echo of those words, from hours ago, taunting him _: I’m what,_ James had asked, _a victim? Weak? Broken? Dependent on you?_ And he’d answered, in the heat of the argument, _you ARE_.

He hadn’t known anything. James wasn’t a victim, wasn’t weak. James was a fucking miracle.

“I’m not sure what you’re thinking—though you are looking at me like you’ve just seen me for the first time ever, and that’s kind of worrying since we’re sharing a bed—but actually that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. Or it was, but only to help explain.”

“You don’t have to explain anything—”

“Will you stop saying that? It isn’t true, and I thought you liked me being able to talk again, but I’m going to start wondering about that if you keep interrupting.”

“You—I—I love you being able to talk again. I love your voice. Please talk if you want to. I’m sorry.”

James smiled at him even more brightly, in the wake of that fervent statement. “Well, then, you asked for it…I wanted to tell you. It hurt a lot—I mean what I did, today, not what he did, though that hurt too—”

“ _James_.”

“You said you’d stop that.”

“Sorry. I’m…sorry. Go on.”

“Mmm…only if you hold me tighter.”

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that. It hurt, and I realized that that was completely stupid, because that was the perfect opposite of what I wanted—want, really. Present tense. I don’t want either of us to be hurt. And you would be hurt, if you came home and found me—”

“Don’t say it.”

“Sorry. Anyway…I remembered thinking—then—the last thing I remembered was wanting to see you one more time. And if I did—what I was doing today—I’d never have that. Or this, being here with you, ever again. And I want this. Anything else isn’t even a choice. I want _this_. I love you.”

“I…I love you, too. You’re wonderful. I mean literally. You—I look at you and I just—I don’t have any fucking _words_ , James. Just…”

“ _Literally_ full of wonder? How does that work, then?”

“You—oh, god,” Michael said, and then laughed, helplessly, at the expression in sapphire eyes, curious and amused and ever so slightly self-satisfied at the reaction, and then, because James was laughing too, pulled him even closer and kissed him, not even stopping to think about it.

He let go instantly. The next second. As soon as he realized, horrified, what he’d just done. Those sea-shaded eyes had turned huge, inches from Michael’s own.

“Oh fuck—James, I’m sorry—”

“Hmm,” James said, and licked his lips. Didn’t move any closer, but didn’t retreat, either. “All right. That was…all right.”

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, I didn’t even—I should’ve thought—” He could feel the thundering pulses of James’s heartbeat, where they were lying pressed together. Too fast. Shocked. His fault. “You—please tell me you’re okay, tell me I didn’t—”

“I’m…fine. I think. Surprised, but fine. Um, I’m not sure you should do it again immediately—or at least warn me first—but yes, I’m okay.”

“You—you are? You said—”

“I said warn me first. If you want to. If you—you do want to kiss me, right? I mean, you just did, but that was—”

“— _yes_! James, yes, I want to kiss you, always, I want—but only if you want, I know you’re not—”

“Then…all right, then…warn me now?”

“Oh my god. Wait—did you mean sort of in retrospect, or—”

“I mean tell me you want to kiss me and then give me a second and then kiss me.”

“…I love you.”

“And I love you. So…”

“So. Okay. Yes. James…” Michael reached out, slowly. Leaving enough time for James to back away, if he wanted, before Michael’s fingers brushed his cheek, tangled into his hair. James didn’t move. Just gazed at him, with those enormous eyes.

“I want to kiss you again. Now. If you think—if that’s all right.”

He heard the not-quite-silent inhale, at that. The sound of James hearing the request, and finding space for it, somewhere inside. Accepting that desire. Accepting that it was mutual: they both wanted this. They could still have this. He saw the recognition of all those truths, in the blue eyes, when James smiled.

Michael could kiss him. And James could be kissed. And they could both be okay.

James breathed, a soft tumble of words into the air, “Yes, I’m all right, and thank you for asking first, and you can, I want you to, you—” and Michael leaned forward, carefully, and kissed him.

Not deeply. Nothing intense. Barely even deserving of the name, really. But everything, ever, regardless.

James’s lips felt warm, against his own. As generous and inviting as he remembered. More so.

He’d always thought that those lips tasted the way the color red must, vivid and sweet and hot to the touch. Vivacious, he thought now. And it was a terrible choice of word, some bizarre flotsam from the depths of his vocabulary, which apparently was channeling a 1950s dictionary, but it was also true: those lips, meeting his, were full of _life_.

And he was so damn grateful, and so in love, and he wanted to start crying, or shout his happiness to the world, or just stay here in this imperfect and brilliant moment, scars and bandages and his hand in James’s hair, and keep on kissing James forever, because nothing could be better than this. Not ever.

James kept his eyes open. The blue of that gaze poured itself into Michael’s heart, and found a home there. Patched up crumbling walls, and restored cracked foundations, and moved in to stay.

He didn’t try to make the contact last too long. Those seconds’d measured out an eternity, anyway. A lifetime. And he couldn’t ask for more than a lifetime of kissing James.

James smiled at him, when Michael drew back. Licked his lips, as if tasting Michael’s presence there. Smiled again, when he caught Michael intently watching the motion.

Michael opened his mouth to ask the questions—are you all right, was that enough warning, what do you need me to do?—and James inquired, right before he collected the last of the words, “Are you all right?”

“…me?”

“Yes, you. Was that…good? For you?”

“James…that was spectacular, for me. Was it—are you—was it okay, at least, for you?”

“No—”

“ _No_?”

“What did we say about you and interrupting? No, it wasn’t okay. But it _was_ …you said spectacular? That’s what it was.”

Michael took a deep breath. Looked into endlessly truthful eyes. One more breath; and then, “I think…you’re not allowed to start sentences with _no_ , all right? Please?”

“Really? What if you ask me to drink five of your martinis in one evening, again? Because I’m very sure I should say no to that.”

“ _James_ ,” Michael said, and then just gave up and laughed, the relief and elation bubbling up and over and out into the air.

James leaned against him, again. Comfortable, and relaxed, in his arms. Not quite laughing out loud, but the amusement was there, sparkling through all the waves.

The world, around them, sparkled too. Even their old familiar bed felt somehow new again. As if they’d never quite been here before.

Outside, the beginnings of sunset painted the sky with radiance. Caught fire, and lit up the world in rose and violet and gold.

“I’ve been scared,” James said, very quietly. “I thought—I’ve been so fucking scared of everything. Other people. You. Me. What I want. Wanting things at all. It was easier to keep thinking I wasn’t really alive. But I am. And I’d like to be. And I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Michael whispered back, and then did start crying, through the laughter, and didn’t care, because James was crying, too, tears sliding like freed crystal over all the freckles, and was holding _him_ , finally, arms solid and reassuring. Real. This was all real.

James looked at him, through still-falling tears. Reached out, and brushed wetness away from Michael’s cheek, with his thumb. The water gleamed on pale skin, for a moment, after. “I love you.”

“I,” Michael managed to say, “I love you, too, I—you said you’ve been scared, and I’ve been—I’ve been trying so hard not to be, not to be scared for you, for us, you need me to be strong and I want to be, for you, I—”

“I know.” James glanced at his own wrist, for a second. Then lifted his hand. Touched his throat; one corner of that mouth quirked upwards, expressive. “Things that’re broken can heal. Not every time, but sometimes. This time. And I want to hold you, if you want that.”

“Yes. I—yes. Please.”

Serenity, like the advancing colors of sunset, drifted into the room. They stayed curled together, in the middle of the bed. And the friendly pillows, warmed by their bodies, nestled more happily around them.

Eventually, Michael said, into exuberantly rumpled hair, “James?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. You just felt like saying it again?”

“I always feel like saying it. You said that you’ve been scared. All the time. You never told me that. I would’ve listened.”

“You never told me, either. I’d say we’re even. And possibly not very good at communicating. But we’re both still here, so. We’re doing okay.”

“We are.” Maybe for the first time since the nightmare’d begun. “So…you’re scared and I’m scared and you actually said fuck, earlier, which was kind of impressive—”

“I do know the word, you know.”

“—and I love you and you love me. And if we are scared…”

“Or scarred.”

“Jesus, James.”

“Sorry. You were being very serious and I couldn’t resist. Also, it’s true.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes.”

“I like kissing you.”

“I like you kissing me. You were saying something, though…?”

“…if we are scared—or scarred, thank you—that _is_ okay. Like you said. We’re both still here. James?”

“Michael?”

“You—earlier you said that you were glad. That I was here. That you should’ve been telling me that. But I haven’t been telling you that, either, have I?”

“Of course you—”

“Not in those words. Not—I don’t think I’ve said that, actually. Or not lately. So…” He watched those wide eyes; they met his own, and didn’t look away. “I am glad you’re here, too. I still—sometimes I still can’t believe you are. That you’re here, and looking at me. And I’m so fucking amazed by that. By you. You trying—being willing to try. I love you. Forever. No conditions, no unless or until or any of that, all right? I just—I’m so damn grateful that you’re here, every day, and I love you. Every day.”

A pause, in which James attempted to talk, blinked ferociously, gave up. “You made me cry. Again…”

“Um…sorry?”

“Not at all. Michael?”

“What do you need?”

“I love you. And…eggs? If there're any left? Or whatever you feel like. Not going to be picky.”

“…what?”

“Well,” James said, cheerfully matter-of-fact, while the eyes laughed, through dampness and drying tears, “I know it’s kind of early for dinner, but I haven’t exactly been eating much—”

“You—you actually want—”

“—and I think I might be hungry, after all.”


End file.
